


A Gardener & His Garden

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Ancient History, Bottom Jared, Domestic Fluff, Drag Queens, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Nerd Jensen, One Shot, Slice of Life, Song Lyrics, Top Jensen, Topping from the Bottom, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, drag queen jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:52:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9771584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Through the power of drag--and by working freelance, under the table engineering jobs--Jared worked the circuit. He broke nails, his heart and those of others, too many pairs of heels to count, and learned how to play the god damn piano. He might have also done a few slightly risque things along the way, but he made it. But behind every successful drag queen is a brilliant costume designer, who happens to be a garden archaeologist with thighs of steel.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts).



 

  
  
  


Many drag clubs in San Francisco started with humble roots. They were speakeasies, discrete clubs for various West coast mobs, and pockets of the city that could be counted on for votes, booze, drugs, and silicon injections. Several clubs claim to be the longest running drag show in San Francisco. Every club has a story and some intense need to stand out amongst the others.

Some bars focus on themes. Others on drinks. A few will inevitably snipe talent. 

The Topper makes no great claims to fame or history. 

Famous people have invested in and visited The Topper, through reservation only. And it has a history, but why dwell in the past? Clubs that depend on ghosts don’t bring in sold-out Saturday night shows. 

Jared started drag as a college student at Stanford. He did well in his Engineering program, but found that a pair of heels and fishnets suited him and his wallet much better. With the rest of his third year loan, he moved from his dorm room in Palo Alto to a fourth floor walk up, two bedroom apartment in San Francisco, which he shared with four other people. Three out of four of them were drag queens. Everyone fought over fake eyelashes and nail polish. They’d have made a great drag version of Three’s Company meets The Real World, if they hadn’t spent so much time squabbling with each other while living in poverty and crafting excuses for why they didn’t have the rent that month.

Through the power of drag--and by working freelance, under the table engineering jobs--Jared worked the circuit. He broke nails, his heart and those of others, too many pairs of heels to count, and learned how to play the god damn piano. He might have also done a few slightly risque things along the way, but he made it. 

The Topper markets itself as a high end club, open Thursday through Sunday, from nine in the evening for cocktails and mingling to three in the morning for pre-brunch mimosas. 

Reservations? Required. Top shelf liquor? Absolutely. A far cry from hoarding drink tickets and wheedling shots from the bartenders, all Jared has to do is request his cranberry and vodka and it arrives on a platter to his dressing room.

Live music? A must, darling, this is The Topper.

At its core, however, it’s all about the show.

Drag shows are exactly as Robin Williams said: this may be a drag show, but it still has to be a  _ good _ drag show--if possible, a great drag show.

“Jensen!” Jared shouts from the bathroom, leaning naked against the sink in an effort to see his face better in the mirror. “You have exactly ten minutes to get in here or I’m leaving like this.”

Drag queens are divas, and divas usually arrive fashionably late, but never to their own shows. Late queens are replaced queens and soon out of work. 

Jared sets his electric razor to setting four and tilts his head to make sure he gets every pesky facial hair. Someone should make a book of the expression queens make while shaving. Jared’s contributions would all include his nose scrunching--shaving has always been one of the most tedious parts of performing. He tried laser, and figured that if beauty requires that much pain he’s better off being hideously ugly.

Jensen appears in the bathroom doorway, hemming a pair of gray trousers, a measuring tape draped around his shoulders. Without looking up from his sewing, he mutters, “Please, you never go out in public with accessories.”

“My muscles  _ are _ accessories.”

“You’re shaving just now?”

“I didn’t have time to wax.”

“And I’m the one being rushed?” Jensen’s hands work quickly. 

Damn stubble. Jared goes over a stubborn patch right under his chin. “If you’re looking for me to apologize for all those dirty things I did to you this morning, I have no regrets.” 

Tiny silver scissors snip at the thread. Jensen tucks the needle into the collar of his half-buttoned shirt. He holds the pants up and out, green eyes inspecting for any irregularity. All that’s left is a quick iron. 

“We read the paper and ate breakfast in bed,” Jensen calls out in response, already three steps towards the living room. “I’d hardly call either of those dirty.”

“Oh, I was wild in bed,” Jared snickers. He shuts off the razor, unplugs it, and casts it aside for the next part of his routine. 

“Yes you were. You gossiped about all the people in the Cultural Arts section and complained about all the people in the Business section.”

“Are you saying you didn’t enjoy listening to me?”

“Never, Jay, never.” 

Behind every successful drag queen is a brilliant costume designer. This worked out in their favor--Jared prefers to have Jensen literally behind him whenever they fuck. Oh sure, he’s capable of topping, but nothing compares to the feel of Jensen’s thighs and hips working against his ass, thrusting hard, pounding deep… 

Jensen reappears in the doorway, cursed with silent footsteps that make him impossible to hear as he moves through their apartment. His voice shatters Jared’s thoughts of muscle, sweat, and…  “You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up.”

“And someone’s going to be poked in the eye with this mascara if he keeps reminding me of that. Besides, are  _ you _ ready?” 

Not only is Jensen Jared’s costume designer, but he’s also in the band. 

The Topper will play recorded music, their sound system is excellent, but the space was built for living sound. It was meant for the intimacy of a piano on stage or the pulse of a drum set situated not too far from cozy black booths and tables. 

When Jared met Jensen, Jensen was a broke, thirty-three year old Horticulture graduate school student with no experience in drag or stage. He could, however, play the saxophone and guitar, plus tell everyone about the relationship between fertility cults and garden design in Ancient Egypt. Or, he could expand on Hellenistic gardens and groves mentioned by ancient writers. Broke. Nerdy. Shy.

Jared was on Jensen like high-cover 35 SPF concealer.

That was five years ago.

Last summer, they went on vacation in New York City and spent most of their time at Coney Island eating chili dogs and drinking cold craft beer on the boardwalk. They left New York gassy, bloated, and tanned. 

“I’m all packed,” Jensen replies, noticing the long glance Jared gives, aimed at a specific portion of his body. “Don’t start--you’re late enough.”

Holding body lotion, instead of the lube he wishes it was, Jared sighs. 

“A queen is never late, nor is she early. She arrives precisely when she means to.” 

 

Before every Sunday night show, the Tomb of Rekhmire in Thebes appears for a few ghostly minutes. 

A delicate papyrus boat sails across the lotus filled rectangular pool. The water glistens, a pure indigo. The boat represents a festival--another complete transformation of the moon. Seven date palms and three sycamore fig trees keep eternal watch. They may not weather time, but their descendents will. 

Located on the north side, any cool breeze tempers the heat inside the attached estate. The columned portico creates a transition from inside to outside. Lush, winding vines and foliage thread over the rafters of the portico and drape down. They create shade and perspective. A single pomegranate tree offers flame colored flowers and a seemingly endless bounty of juicy, sweet fruit. Marble from the columns sparkles, as if sanded down with sugar. Light from the moon provides a creamy tint to even the brightest flower and ripest fruit. 

Every deep breath fills the lungs with air cleaned and filtered by aromatic foliage, flowers, and palms. 

Thriving grapevines extend over the garden walls, which are made of a dusty ginger brick.  _ Phoenix dactylifera _ , the familiar date palm, watches the boat complete its passage through the pristine pool.

Flowers from the garden would be carefully selected and picked for floral collars. Multicolored, abundant and lovely, they were sewn onto strings and stitched together. These delicate things survived millennia in the tombs, well-preserved treasures of the natural world and human passion for art. The perfect collar had balance and color. 

_ Alcea ficifolia. Anthemis pseudoctula. Centaurea depressa. Cordia gharaf and myxa. Cressa cretica. Jasminium sambac. Lilium candidum. Melilotus indica. Mentha sativa. Punica granatum. _

Hollyhock. Camomile. Blue cornflower. Cordia with a plum-like flower. Pink morning glory. Jasmine. Madonna lily. Sweet clover. Mint. Pomegranate. 

It would all rest upon regal shoulders.

Many Egyptians included a prayer in their tombs in hopes that in the afterlife, they might be able to return to their garden, nourished forever by the water, trees, and flowers. 

This must be someone’s prayer. Through Jensen, they are kept alive. And this is the only reliable way to travel through time. 

Jared opens his eyes and peers at himself in the mirror. No indigo pool, but two orbs of mixed colors fighting for supremacy against the color scheme of his outfit. The shift in worlds creates a clouded sensation in his head, a rush of sensation cut short. Instead of that royal residence where bodies and souls are at rest, he sits in his dressing room, surrounded by makeup, tissues, cotton pads, corsets and pantyhose, and bottles of water and champagne. 

But then.

There’s Jensen. Wearing the almost silver pants he had been hemming and a crisp, white dress shirt. Jared does his own makeup. Always has. A queen can’t depend on others for that crucial task. And he worked every show he could book for years to afford this makeup and its tools of application. It makes sense that he should be the one to use it.

“Just…” Jensen licks his thumb and kneels in front of Jared, between the vee of his legs. 

Two smudges to the edges of his eyes produce the exact effect desired. 

Jared smiles, wearing a quarter ton of makeup, painstakingly applied eyelashes, and a platinum blond wig. 

“Stay there,” he murmurs, smile rapidly turning into a smirk. “I like this angle.”

This nerd knows the fancy names for ancient plants and flowers. But he also holds extensive knowledge of the Dallas Cowboys, music improvisations, at least fifty types of handcrafted beer, how to make the perfect cup of coffee no matter where they are, and how to touch Jared’s body like it’s holy.

And a disturbing knowledge of Dolly Parton songs. 

“When I Sing for Him,” Jensen laughs. His hands start at the curves of Jared’s calves, fingertips firm against eggshell stockings. 

Without disturbing an eyelash, Jared rolls his eyes. He leans back in his chair and cards a hand through Jensen’s hair. “Touch Your Woman.”

“Baby I’m Burning.”

“Telling Me Lies.”

“Old Flames Can’t Hold a Candle to You.”

“They damn well better not,” Jared huffs. He tugs on Jensen’s ear. “Why’d You Come in Here Lookin’ Like That.” 

“Please Help Me, I’m Falling.”

“Both Sides Now.”

“Just When I Needed You Most.”

Familiar hands reach Jared’s thighs, then they frame his waist, holding him secure. Jared thinks about his next song title. He had to learn this language, along with others, to understand Jensen at two in the morning, awake and brooding, silent but not. What he shares with the world is distinctly different than what he shares in the Thebes. 

Jared runs his thumb over Jensen’s cheek. Time to leave for the stage. 

Before doing so, he utters the name of love and loyalty in Egyptian and Mesopotamian. “ _ Nelumbo nucifera _ .” 

The papyrus boat sails on amongst the lotus flowers in the pool. 

 

Without heels, Jared stands at six feet four inches. 

In heels, Jared addresses his Sunday night audience at a confident six feet nine inches--that’s three inches for the heels and two for his hair. He kept his hair somewhat simple tonight, platinum blond styled in gentle, cascading waves that reach his biceps. 

This is the world he knows. 

“Hey, y’all,” Jared purrs into his microphone and blows kisses at his audience. 

Sold out show yet again. He brushes back a lock of hair from his face, enjoying the lighting on stage tonight. Addy will be thanked later. Playing up an accent he only mildly uses off-stage, he schmoozes and charms everyone from the front rows to the seats in back. Rules of performance stay with him. Drag is time consuming and not for the faint of heart. Support other queens. Invest in drag. Be respectful, never vulgar. Continue to learn. Know the lyrics. Practice. Breathe.

Jared walks through the club, allowing people to take pictures and gently shake his gloved hand. His costume designer found a faux fur coat the color of porcelain and treated it so that it shines under the stage lights. His pair of silk gloves match. Not one hint of his outfit underneath can be seen--purposefully so. Glimpses of his stockings appear as he steps through the theater. He went simple with his makeup tonight, at the suggestion of his costume designer, though he did add a silver dust over his cheeks and refused to give up his infamous crimson lipstick.

“I met a queen, many years ago.” Jared makes his way back up to the stage, where his piano awaits. “And she took it upon herself to give me pointers on makeup. I needed it back then. Y’all should have seen  _ this _ .” He points at his face and laughs. “So she helped and I thanked her. Sent her a basket of dildos every Christmas. That’s what we do--send each other sex toys and banana bread. One gift to make you feel at home and one gift to make you stay home. But one year, I ran into her and she was a completely different person. Mean, nasty as can be. So I told her, ‘I have never met anyone able to shove their head so far up their own ass without smudging their eyeliner. Good for you, sweetie.’” 

True story. 

He settles in at the piano and starts off with a light song, encouraging the audience to chime in. Three quarters of the way through, he stands up, but the music continues, switching to the speakers. Hands raised, Jared finishes with the whole room singing out loud. 

Some days, this feels like work.

The rent on their apartment doesn’t pay itself. 

He pays the rent, Jensen pays utilities and groceries. On Mondays they sleep in. On Tuesday afternoons Jared dresses up and reads stories at the bookstore two blocks away as part of Storytime with Drag Queens. On Wednesday nights they close all the blinds in the living room, turn off the lights, and play Xbox One for hours. On Thursday mornings, Jensen inevitably gloats at his video game prowess and Jared reluctantly makes him breakfast in bed. On Fridays, they walk to The Topper, hand in hand, and pick up their checks because clubs are clubs, not corporations, and direct deposit doesn’t exist. 

On Saturdays, they sleep, practice, and perform.

On Sundays, they sleep, practice, and perform.

The band joins Jared on stage, earning their own round of applause. Jared introduces them all, but he gives a distinct squeeze to Jensen’s shoulder. 

This Tuesday, the bookstore is merging two events into one: Baking and Storytime with Drag Queens. They’ll be making Valentine’s Day sugar cookies with frosting and sprinkles before Jared and his friend Dixie read to them. For every cookie made, the store will donate two dollars to three youth shelters in the city. 

Those are their official Valentine’s Day plans. 

Jared works the crowd. People drink, laugh, and enjoy themselves. The band leads him into a short, upbeat song, then smoothly transitions him into a ballad. He doesn’t have the best voice, certainly nothing in comparison to Jensen’s when he thinks no one’s listening, but that’s okay. He has presence and passion and pain. Pain from the heels and corsets he’s worn over the years, the many nails he’s broken, the names he’s been called, the songs he’s sung and forgotten, the unidentifiable sadness created by the fact that he feels comfortable in both identities but only has one body.

That, and the superb musicians on stage with him, result in an encore. 

Backstage, with only seconds to spare, he stops Jensen. 

“Not you, Jen,” he says, hand on Jensen’s chest. “Get that ass out to the table over there, front and center.” The one open table in the theater waits for Jensen with a glass of his favorite champagne. 

Written texts, mosaics, reliefs, frescoes, and painted columns provide a wealth of evidence for the importance of gardens throughout history. Every major civilization created their own version of a garden--Egypt, Mesopotamia, Hellenistic Greece, Rome, China, Persia. 

Each and every one embraces the cultivation of nature.

Throughout the centuries, gardeners and horticulturists have continued a desire to nurture selected plants and flowers. They learn by trial and error. Gardens are where humans aim to capture a sliver, a snapshot, a front row seat to their own form of paradise.

A gardener doesn’t create beauty.

They enhance it. 

But how can they see their creations and contributions to world now and beyond if they do not take the time to occasionally step back?

Jared makes sure Jensen takes his seat. 

Garden archaeology remains a relatively new discipline. There aren’t that many people studying it, and even less out in public willing to talk about or listen to it. The field builds on the past interpretations of ancient societies and environments--their cultures, habits, preferences, and ideals. These aren’t just empty spaces.

And Jared hasn’t just been nodding along all this time.

They built this costume together. For three weeks, they sat in their living room and assembled pieces in every spare moment. Jensen made the skeletal frame himself, custom fitting it to Jared’s body and proportions. Many queens don’t have the resources Jared does: a steady paycheck, affordable rent, and his own personal costume designer capable of creating outfits fashioned from bargain bins and clearance racks and whatever’s on sale at the craft store. This time though, Jared kept adding to his outfit, working in secret. 

On stage, front and center in Jensen’s view, he knows exactly how he’ll pin Jensen down to their bed later. It might not be until two or three in the morning, but after champagne and kisses and impatient groping, they’ll slide and slip together--seamless and exact. Jensen will try to return a few favors, and Jared will think it’s sweet and totally ridiculous. They can sleep all day Monday and order pizza and play Skyrim and make out on the living room floor. But after this, Jared will steady his hips over Jensen’s and sink down over Jensen’s warm, heavy cock and ride him so hard the headboard will quake. And all Jensen will have to do is hold onto Jared’s hips, his hands splayed wide, fingertips digging into him the same way he plays the saxophone. They’ll work together in bed like they do on stage. Jensen will open him up, stretch him out, pound into his senses. And Jared will reciprocate, apply his own volcanic pressure, mixed with a combination of excitement, desire, and buoyant energy. They’ll work together to achieve the sound of Jensen fucking into him and the headboard slamming against the wall and their poor mattress squeaking. Jared will do that swivel and sigh thing that Jensen loves, lean down, and kiss the hell out of him, fucking himself on his cock without skipping a beat. And then he’ll feel Jensen’s hands in his hair, pulling slightly, tugging, and then he’ll hear a quiet gasp, followed by a guttural groan from plump, plush lips that Jared immediately swallows. He’ll feel Jensen come inside him like a thousand times before--desperate, willing, and complete.

Upbeat music starts. 

Jared doesn’t sing for this one, but he knows the words, the timing, the movements. He lip syncs this one for the performance. Still in his white coat and gloves, he holds the mic close. 

“Everybody’s gotta love each other. Stop throwin’ stones at your sisters and your brothers. Why do we gotta put each other down, when there’s more than enough love to g-g-go around.” It’s all in the shoulders. Big movements. Wide movements. Own the whole god damn stage. 

The band comes to life full swing. They are experts. Drums kick off the real beat to the song.

“Come to Mama,” Jared sings, extending one arm, matching the music. “Tell me who hurt ya. There’s gonna be no future if we don’t figure this out…” 

For the bulk of the song, Jared steps back out into the audience. He keeps in tempo with the band, never missing a beat or a word. His shoulders move, hips sway, and hair flips at the perfect point in time. The audience claps and stands with him, including the person front and center of it all. 

“Who are you gonna follow? There’s gonna be no future if we don’t figure this out…” He holds the notes exactly as sung and follows the magnetism of the stage to wind up back on it. Lights. Drums. Frankie playing the saxophone instead of the guitar. Soon. Just a few breaths more. Almost. Build it up. Build the audience--smile, pose, lead them to the showstopper. 

The drums pulse--onetwoonetwoonetwo…

“Come to Mama,” Jared belts out, his sync perfectly executed. He shoulders off the coat and reveals a gold, sequined corset underneath. His stockings shimmer in the house lights. His hair shines. But more than anything that takes the audience’s breath away are his wings--constructed from feathers in a magnificent gradient of colors. 

And into each section, Jared sewed the flowers of his collar. 

His hips bounce along with the music, shoulders work, and he tosses his head back to finish the last few lines. “I wanna be there for you, I wanna be there. Why do we gotta tell each other how to live? Look what that rainbow did. Oooh, oooh, oooh.” 

Every painful rehearsal, corset, and pair of heels makes it worth it.

From front row center, Jensen gets to see the garden he nurtured and kept alive.

**Author's Note:**

> "Come to Mama" by Lady Gaga here, as well as snippets from "Gardens and Gardeners of the Ancient World" by Linda Farrar. 
> 
> I'm always late when posting holiday themed fics! Gah! One of these days. And even later because AO3 was down last night. But here we are!
> 
> I hope y'all had a fabulous Valentine's Day and were spoiled and treasured by those near you. <3 I had too much candy, cupcakes, and pizza. Or, just another Tuesday in my life, lol. I hope y'all enjoyed this. Thank you for being here.


End file.
